


Dark Tech Tethered on Darkness

by ParadigmOfWriting



Series: Amissum [1]
Category: Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 06:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17719769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadigmOfWriting/pseuds/ParadigmOfWriting
Summary: Darkness comes in many forms- multiple shapes and many sizes. The mansion is a crumbled wreck, and all Ike Griel can think about is who saved him, and why does he know his rescuer, but on the same token, does not? Marth Lowell, his grand rescuer, has several scores to settle, and in this ravaged mess they both came from, there was no better way than to piece Ike back together.





	Dark Tech Tethered on Darkness

Pain reminds Ike that he's alive.

It takes several moments—millenniums—before he's conscious enough to register anything but the aforementioned. It's hard to localize where the pain is coming from, senses having gone haywire. Malfunctioning computers. Beeping monitors. Error, error.

He feels motion underneath him. He's in a car. The backseat. Wrists and ankles tied, tape over his mouth, blood (his blood? Marth's? Master Hand's—?) in his eyes and he can't see. He tries to scream but it comes out as a hum. The panic is shoved aside by a more pressing matter, inflicting a deep, deep dread:

He's ill.

He imagines the Smash Stadium smeared on his skin, seeping through his pores, poisoning his soul. All the grey stainless steel iron barbs that stab and puncture and kill and wound and make much less of a mockery than the real place ever did. Is Marth helping him? Is everyone alright? Everything after the explosion... all a blur.

Along with the memories comes an incredible urge to hurl. And he was always so _logical_ , with good grades and a good family of friends and a good job killing everyone he knew, and therefore knows the high probability of him choking to death on his own vomit. That, or the gut wound will kill him. The intestines untangle, the stomach acid rises, the organs corrode... He arches forward, feeling spew in his throat like curdled milk worming its way upwards. The sickness feasts inside him. The fever makes him delirious.

Error, error, error. No restart button.

(' _01101000 01100101 01101100 0111000001101000 01100101 01101100 0111000001101000 01100101 01101100 0111000001101000 01100101 01101100 0111000001101000 01100101 01101100 0111000001101000 01100101 01101100 01110000—_ ') All this jumbled code that made no sense to him... it hurts all too much to remember. Entering that code into a computer and watching as the tight cube closes in on the poor blonde boy and navy haired girl fighting over the panicked screams of the crowd.

The tape dissolves. It becomes smoke like, slithering hotly across his lips. Ike thanks the entity by retching all over the car seat. He croaks out, "Help, pl— _please_... I'm _sick_..."

"Shut the fuck up."

It sounds like several people talking at once, or voices overlapping in some sound distortion program. Hitch pitched, low pitched, all at once. Distinctly human, and not. Masculine, though. All around angry.

The illness engulfs him. He retches once more before passing out, slipping into half conscious fever dreams.

.

.

The car stops at one point.

Ike is vaguely aware of being dragged through a blur of streetlights and shining wet pavement. The outdoor air does not unnerve him. He's docile until he sees a construction loom over him and his mind goes _no_. Suddenly he's kicking and screaming because he doesn't want to go back _'please don't make me go back in—'_

"This isn't the Smash Stadium. Calm _down_."

Having his head smashed against the ground halts the panic attack. He lost his mind in the stadium. Literally. He tried looking for it, but it was so, so dark.

There's a streetlight behind the man's head, and he looks like a faceless Jesus. Maybe this man is his savior? Ike goes limp, like a vegetable, or a baby with its legs cut off. These metaphors are good indicators of (in)sanity. The man does not pick him up again, and so he lies there on the ground, abandoned. He's back in the prison garden, alone. There isn't anything left to vomit up so he just dry heaves until he's unconscious.

.

.

Ike dreams.

_Peach is making sweet dumplings together with the plumbers, who dip their gloved fingers in a sugar jar, licking them clean. Only time they ever got to act like kids and not wonderful adults who knew how to beat each other up. There is a tranquil idyll in the pastel painted kitchen. Peach sees him and reaches out to him, "Baby you're home!", and he reaches back, reaches and reaches—_

The mere movement causes him wake by the illness' merciless return, but the view does not dampen it. The ceiling above him is too rotten to tell if it's insects or fungi that have done the deed. Nevertheless it results in a sour smell and a chilling knowledge that any moment the roof will collapse on him and smash his overheating brain / hardware. The walls and floor are not better. The room smells like rotten food, and Ike guesses he does too.

He's not home. He feels like a child. Everything is new and scary and nothing makes sense.

"You're awake." Ike jumps with the sound of someone else's voice, hollow and double edged.

"Marth Lowell," he breathes.

There he is, in the doorway of the shitty little room. Or what's left of him. Ike can still see the resemblance to the web photos he'd found when researching journalists, after the stadium, after the loss of everyone he knew, that's where the blue haired nonsense in his heart turned- to journalism. Crushing everyone who hurt him. Made for a good daytime job. Paid good money for nonsensical hours. Marth often shouting and escorted off scene by policemen, that was the usual extra part of the pay raise. He had a vocabulary that could make nuns set themselves on fire, but also an unmatched sense of justice. Got fired for it. Now, his clothes are in tatters, dirtied with God knows what. The blue mop of hair remains. One can see that Lowell has originally been human—and that's about it.

Thin, pulsating veins are embedded into his face, like mycelium, vine or an external nervous system. The veins run into the corners of both eyes and stain them liquid black. There are more on his arms, which are crossed...? It seems both of them are infested with the stadium. It became them, festering deep inside till death consumed them whole.

"So you know my name, huh? Then again... we did know each other for like seven or eight years. I _am_ pretty unforgettable." He strides across the creaking floorboards, taking his time. The air around him shifts, darkly. He looks like a god staring at a mortal destroying itself, fascinated and repulsed.

Ike presses his back against the wall, terrified. The movement causes him to discover that his stomach and leg have been bandaged. They throb, but are nothing compared to the illness. The sheets are moth eaten, filthy and covered in blood.

"Scared despite being out? Don't worry. I didn't save you just to kill you again, even if you did steal my car and almost left me behind back there. When the place exploded? It's fine. Not even mad."

"Wh—where are...?" The whole of him is shaking.

"Where we are? A hideout," Marth says. When he spreads his arms in a _ta da!_ motion, he's missing fingers. "When you're a freelance journalist and hated by the government, you need to have a shitload of these. Better than couch surfing, believe me."

Shelter. Yes. That is what Ike needs, firstly. This room is not a prison, because he can leave anytime he wants to. It becomes like a locker or the space beneath a bed, helping him hide from the monster terrorising the outer world. These walls are for his own protection. A little room outside of space and time, outside of mathematics, making him think of Cantor's infinite sets and _God is in infinity_ and ω0, ω0+1 ... Oh, the code that burns his little skull off its cranium spike.

The mutilated hand that presses against his skin nearly sends him into frenzy.

"You don't have a fever."

"I'm ill," Ike insists.

"In the head, at least." Marth pulls back. "Seems like it's up to me to nurse you back to health, and then you can answer the questions. Then, I can find out who you are. For the real Ike Griel hides from me. It did all those years ago. It's happening to me now. Not on my watch, this time."

Something in Ike screams that he mustn't find out, he must never find out, but most of him is just tired. He turns his head away and waits until Lowell have left the room. He sleeps. Awakens. Sleeps more. Viruses ripple through him, distorting information, threatening to shut him down.

.

.

Marth does not ask. Instead, the water bottle is roughly shoved into his mouth. Ike becomes hysteric, fighting him. "I gave you a chance. Sat glasses beside your bed, watched 'em remain untouched. Ungrateful son of a bitch."

"N—no, could be... _poisoned_! Or piss, or blood, or..."

The bottle falls to the floor. Some of the water pours out, dirty water. Lowell is unreadable.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm... sick. Very sick. This place—this _place_ is sick." Memories flood him. "I... I had to, y'see. Had to drink of it. Otherwise I'd died, but it wasn't worth it, couldn't get the taste out of my mouth..."

"I haven't poisoned your drink," Marth says. "It's normal tap water. Clean tap water." Ike's doubt does not falter until Marth himself takes a sip of the water bottle. "See?"

It's humiliating, how Marth has to hold Ike to make him drink.

"We need to change your clothes, too. They're dirty. Unhygienic."

This time, Ike doesn't struggle.

With sluggish movements, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. "I want to get the madhouse off me." The intensity of Lowell's stare does not go unnoticed. Problem is, even the clothes he changes into are dirty. But he still thanks Marth, but it comes out rambling, just like one would thank a ticking time bomb.

Another fundamental need is soon re-established, in the form of moulded bread and rotten milk being placed in front of him on a little tray, ready to be consumed. Where do the damned blue headed nut job journalist find these things? Dumpsters? Is it to make Ike's entrance back into society—back into his identity—more comfortable? Things repeat themselves. One big circle. Lowell has to accompany him to the bathroom and hold his hair as he pukes.

.

.

Little by little, he gets better. Soon, sleep is not enough.

Ike misses a connection. Not only to a network / the outer world, but also to a human, feel skin again skin. He denied this need for years, pretending to be a machine at the stadium, ignoring the urge to socialize. [Personality type: introvert. Estimated IQ: 135. Number of friend requests on social media: 00.] Peach showed him something he couldn't put into codes and commands. _"You are not a machine,"_ she'd say, a tad suggestively _. "You have needs."_

This worsens it, though. He's sex starved. Or just touch starved. He recalls Marth's fingers in his hair, the first touch in ages. Ike knows Lowell is homosexual. The blonde bitch Samus did that against him. The stadium used it. The tabloids used it against him, although his primary themes were war against corruption and uploading redacted material. Comments declared him an attention starved faggot—and if he is one at the moment, then perhaps they can come to an agreement. He's still sick and still in some sort of drunk, unreal state, view cut from old film stock, washed out and grainy. This clouds his judgment.

Marth scurries around like some animal, black eyes brimming with paranoia and _something else_ , standing in the doorway and staring a while too long before moving on. How big is the house? Hard to tell. There are no windows. The room is cut from the world and Time. A file whose content are not saved, as if it never existed. (No one will know the things that'll happen here.) Identity has become vulgar—something that needn't exist, not now, at least. Marth comes back, eventually. He always does. The hunger rises in Ike's chest.

"Marth," he says, and although it's a whine, it's the most certain he's sounded like in ages. "Fuck me."

Lowell does not need to be asked twice.

He's been waiting for this. Downloading. The bar... stops. Lowell... Marth does not look...

Focused.

(Is this one of the side effects of the stadium? Is it sentient? Does it whisper into his ears? Telling him, not do this thing or move that. Don't put your fucking penis in this man's ass because it'd look way too wrong from the outside?)

Ike thinks of Zeno's paradox with Achilles and the tortoise, stretching into infinity. Movement without movement. Time passes differently for him. Marth's suddenly on the bed, crawling towards him. Ike sits with his legs spread out, wearing only boxers and a wide tee. When Marth carefully touches his leg, Ike's back starts freezing. His whole body is a mess incorrectly connected wires and nerves.

But he doesn't want to look at Marth, no, so he turns around to lie at his back.

Everything becomes desire and instinct. Ike gives himself to it and views sex as commands:

1\. Removal of clothes / layers  
Marth removes Ike's underwear without caring for anything else. Ike looks at Lowell's wrists to see the black veins. They enamour him, in a way. But he does not care that Marth has a face, or even a name, because all he is for him currently is an object of desire. He needs to satisfy this primal need.

2\. Activate arousal, manually (advanced) or automatically (recommended)  
His blood pumping is a dull black drone of wind in his head. Smoky appendages crawl over his skin. Marth is excited and the stadium leaks out of his pores. It almost becomes lovingly and Ike wants none of that, and without human language, he instructs Marth to be rougher. Pain is pulse. Pain makes him able to feel he's alive.

3\. Apply lubricant and firewalls  
Ike hasn't done it with a man before, but Marth knows the procedures, and goes through them. Two fingers. Some spit. Protection. Ike bites his tongue until it bleeds. Then: entrance.

4\. Initiate procedure  
Shit shit shit it hurts like hell _oh_ —

(Somewhere in his mind, Ike laughs hysterically at his digital metaphors, as if he's clinging to coding to avoid emotion.)

"— _God_."

Marth stops, momentarily.

"I prayed," Ike shakily inhales like he's talking about sins, "in that fucking asylum of a stadium... but God was not _there_."

"Maybe they killed him." Marth starts shoving into him, continuing this wretched closeness, this humiliating act of emotion food. Ike isn't sure he can handle it, but Marth wouldn't like being thrown up on during sex, not after the soiling his car and bathroom with bile and distress. "Maybe I did." Language dirties the act, mends in religion, moral, consciousness and other unnecessary human concepts. They go back to being animals, grunting and groaning. In a moment of clarity, Lowell is trying to find a good angle, but Ike doesn't _want_ that, doesn't want it to be good. He wants it to _hurt_ , slamming himself into Marth, who gets frustrated and slams back, continuing into a bad circle of which the result is pain and frustration.

Marth reaches down to jerk Ike off, maybe as an apology, but Ike _jolts_ and smacks his hand away. He doesn't want anyone touching him there. Not after—

(" _Darling_.")

Ike grits his teeth, stiff and wrapped tightly. Marth bites into the hollow of his neck, around it, everywhere he can get his teeth. Marking. Another ancient ritual. Ike already looks like a watercolour painting of cuts and bruises, and Lowell adds new ones on top. There are patterns on his flesh, too, like the intricate insides of a computer. Ike wants to pick him apart, and in the process, be picked apart himself.

The climax grants a second of death, a little meditation or dark inner calm, and Ike doesn't care who he is or what Marth is or what will happen. A kind of love. A kind of lustmord. This is better than any medication.

Marth finishes afterwards, and pulls out almost immediately. He fixes his clothes and leaves without saying anything. Ike is thankful for that.

.

.

The fundamental needs are not enough anymore—within his identity, another one grows.

Safety / security. In body, in home, in health... Order.

Firstly, he must get out of this room. Ike shakily rises, grimacing because the insides of his legs are sticky. At least the soles of his feet are not. His leg is still bad, but bandaged, and he has to drag it behind him. He's been to the bathroom once before, so he knows the way. The shower makes gurgling noises when he turns it on, and the water is thick and rusty. He is in charge now, and chooses to wash with a towel instead. Choosing which clothes to wear from the heap on the floor brings him a strange joy. It's his body, so he can wear what he want and do what he want with it. _Finally_.

This must be a cabin. Yes. Cabins are designed as escapes from society.

He walks into the hall after leaning out to check for monsters. Once one cracks the code in mathematics, IT or languages the skills becomes motorized. Uninstalling these skills will be difficult. He does not look through windows. The idea of a distorted face looking back is too heart wrenching. Peeking into keyholes is also a definitive no (the chance of seeing red, red, red is too high—and later learn the eye colour of the ghost hunting there) so Ike opens the only door there, slowly.

Marth is sitting at a table, staring into space while smoking a cigarette. He jerks up when Ike enters. The hostility is replaced with amusement when he sees that Ike is limping, for another reason than just the hurt leg. "How's the sickness?" Lowell asks with his double edged voice.

"Still there." Sex doesn't change that. Ike tries to be casual, and sits down on the opposite end of the table. He can't put his elbows down since the table is full of dust and dried wax. "I can do basic stuff, though. Drink. Walk. Eat. Speaking of eating..." he heads for the kitchen section. The counter is also dusty. He looks around and reaches for some canned soup, only to feel presence behind him.

He hasn't heard Marth move. But he stands there, hands in his pockets. "I still don't know who you are," he notes, but it isn't angry. Neutral. Uncaring. "Too much of a pussy to be a real Smasher. Did you know you passed out when I came for you? A Subspace employee, maybe. Or an inmate of a prison we didn't know existed. You're too strange for my liking Ike Griel."

"I'm not crazy."

"That's debatable."

"I'm _sick_."

"You keep saying that. It's alright, though. I can wait until you get _better_." Marth's moved again. He's closing in, now. Ike is pressed against the counter. "How about we start with your first name, huh?"

"No."

"Oh? Then how about I fuck you instead? Right here, right now." Lips on Ike's neck. The demonized journalist breathes against his skin.

" _Lowell_."

"Are you using my last name to dehumanize me? To make the fact that you tried to leave me at the Stadium? And there is a ring mark on your finger. I know you're married, yet that didn't stop you last night. You're fine, physically, thanks to me. Your wounds are healing."

"Maybe you're just keeping me alive so that there's always the possibility for murder, later, _Marth_."

"Maybe. 'Till then, I'm gonna protect you." Like that, the stadium's soul manifests in smoke around him, forming thin tentacles that stroke his skin, heading south. With surprising finesse, they work on his pants. Ike's breath hitches. "Don't worry. I can use it for violence _and_ sex. Both are equally relevant to my interests." Ike twists around with the intention to break Marth'—he's not afraid of a name—jaw, but his knee is between Ike's legs, and the stadium's powers being so close somehow makes him terrified _and_ turned on. "My my, hard already?" He's biting at Ike's earlobe. His mouth follow the line of his jaw until it finds his bottom lip, sucking on it. The ministrations are so gentle and welcomed that Ike supports himself against Marth, trusting him with his weight.

He saw Lowell tear a man apart. Should he change his mind, will that happen to Ike?

It isn't until the hand starts moving down (" _Such soft skin_.") that Ike pushes Marth away without warning.

"Don't touch me."

Lowell raises both brows, but does pull away. "Aren't we in a bad mood today?"

"Why are we here?" Ike asks, ignoring the question, trying to appear blasé.

"And on the seventh day..." Marth trails off and grins. "We're _resting_. Connecting dots. I found documents and wrote notes and I compare them to video footage when... when I'm able to." So the Lowell pretty boy is still human, huh. The memories make his skin crawl, too. "Using yours as well. Haven't gone through them all yet. The documents spark more interest, though. All the notes say are Peach this, Peach that... Your wife, yeah? That princess lady with blonde hair who you were married too, knowing she loved that fiery head plumber? You're disgusting."

"Shut up."

Ike tries to think through what documents he'd found. Did anything mention his name? He tries to think back—tries to find momentarily clearance in midst of the horror. The RESIGNATION OF IKE GRIEL document didn't go out there and spell it, did it? He could have just been an ordinary Smasher gone insane. Perhaps Marth hasn't analyzed that document, or read it at all. But he will, probably. There is no way out of it now.

"My name," Ike says slowly, "is Ike Griel."

Marth raises an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to mean something more to me? Like, the old past life we've left behind because it is now a burning pile heap of metal that is still eroded by demon flames that never cease to be extinguished? Won't work. If that's your name..."

_Leave it at that. He might never know that you're the one who called him to the Stadium when you were picked, when you were needed—and made him what he is now._ But that... that does not produce a feeling of security. The idea that Marth might find out on his own, suddenly and without warning, is far more terrifying than any temporal security a white lie can give.

"10260110756 . I sent you that email. I made you come to the stadium when you felt like leaving."

Marth stills completely. Eyes dart to the folder, back to the man, to the folder. Back and forth in a crazed dance. Eyes widening, lips parting, anger surmounting. Then-

Then the stadium inside him

**screams.**

.

.

He's back in the stadium again. Or was he here all along? Hidden away in some dank cellar, a parody of real life. He's still trapped in the game one can't win.

The stadium had seemed to stretch onto infinity, once. 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + ⋯ = 1/12. Negative 0.0833333, repeating. Numbers, however they may buoy him, are not the A and the Ω. He's not scared any less because of mathematical paradoxes. God is infinite, and Marth swallowed and became Him. Lowell is scarier than numbers.

Ike goes on autopilot (command 01: run run run runrunrunrun 01110010 01110101 01101110 01110010 01110101 01101110 01110010 01110101 01101110) and speeds down the hallway, bumping into walls, hyperventilating.

"Whistleblower! The fucker!" It is called quietly from behind him, and Ike's breath hitches. There are no doors, there's... The bed. Oh, the bed. Memories. He dives underneath it. Hears footsteps. And he prays, hysterically, _don't let him catch me don't let him catch me—_

A hand on his leg. The hurt one. Ike turns around, and stares right into a grinning face clouded by black smoke.

"Gotcha."

The pain as he's pulled out of there by his broken ankle is gruesome, and he _screams_ , snot and tears running down his face. His face glistens with it. Marth—the stadium's inner demon—throws him on the bed, and Ike curls up like a child, closing his eyes tightly. There's a shadow above him. "...I didn't mean to... I wasn't... I'm _sorry_..."

"Being sorry won't bring my fingers back, Griel," Marth sneers, and smog gushes from his mouth like a dragon.

"...Please, I have a wife and kids..."

"Not after what you experienced at that fucking stadium. They're dead to you."

It is so honest that Ike stops sobbing, staring blankly ahead. He can't return to them now, as this madman, about to burst with the rot and illness caught at the Smash Stadium. "I don't... belong... anywhere."

_**Belongness** _ _, n._

_Definition: a feeling of what I don't possess._

"That's wrong, Ike. You're mine now. You belong to me."

Therein lies the difference of their responses to the aftermath of outlasting death for so long. Ike Griel, computer genius and moral family man, has become paranoid and ailing. Marth Lowell, freelance journalist and lonely wolf, has transformed into a lifeless, vengeful monster. Marth has a low view of humans and expects disaster. He's constantly tired, miserable and edgy. Perfect for journalism. This also makes him view things at a distance. He's able to pity people like Lucas or Shulk, and does not snap as quickly as Ike does.

Marth sits down beside him and pats his back. "Don't worry. I told you I'd nurse you back to health. Build you up. It'll be our _experiment_."

Ike has seen the results of such. He swallows thickly, but says nothing.

.

.

"So I read I have gone through your stuff, Smasher 49," Marth begins. The stadium soul isn't visible externally. It follows his orders, but also his moods. He sits cross legged on Ike's bed.

This seems more and more like some disturbed therapy session, a part in the experiment that is Ike Griel. The closeness is blatantly unhealthy. Goal: establish esteem.

"You seem... coherent, throughout of it. Mostly. Quoting one of your notes, you mentioned that things were ripped out in the stages we so lovely killed each other on. Other things were put in. I agree. The poor fighters had their interests amplified, I think. You said you didn't know how long you were in the fucking place. Did something get stuffed into you? Or amplified?"

_Stuffed_. Like a turkey at Thanksgiving, Peach would say. There it is again, the dream image of his eldest son licking his fingers, but he suddenly morphs into Lucina. (" _The meat is mine_ "—a claim not unlike Marth'.) Ike blinks it away. "I don't know. They made us fight disturbing images, but I don't know of what except Rorschach blots. Numbers, I think... Animals... Didn't experience any after effects. Maybe my sight was a bit distorted. That could've been panic, though." He's babbling.

Marth shrugs. He's lost interest in the subject, for now. Although he claims to be reading over his material, this place functions primarily for rest. "Peach, or, um, ah, _Mrs. Griel_ seems to function as a lighthouse for your sanity. Is she still that?"

Ike licks his lips, nervously. Marth follows the movement with his eyes. "Peach is outside in the real world. I... I went to far _in_ —side." The last word is dragged out and put emphasis on.

"In the madhouse or yourself?"

"Both." Both are spoiling with unspeakable horror and rotten internally.

"Where there a particular time when she stopped being your light? You mention her in your notes all the way to the end, but you haven't mentioned her _here_."

"I dreamt of her."

"I dream of many things," Marth says. "That doesn't make them real. Or important. Do you dream often?"

"No. I just had one of her and the kids. I don't have any nightmares."

"Lucky. I wish my nightmares were clear. However, you don't seem to realize that you're out. You cast nervous glances at the door, the walls, _me_... You avoid windows. Don't think I haven't noticed." Marth leans closer. "Tell me, did you want me to fuck you so you'd _forget_ your wife? Perhaps you've convinced yourself that you cannot reach her. That entering the stadium was some sort of one way road, stretching into Hell and beyond. Peach _and the kids_ has become a synonym with freedom, a concept you'll never obtain. Do they even exist?"

"Fuck off." This pop psychology Marth is gushing is starting to piss Ike off.

"Don't get angry. It's a simple yes or no question. Then how about this: You want to forget the sound of her voice. You want to forget that she is obtainable, now. You've been too long in hell. You want to forget her voice calling out to you, because it's too unreal and must be another dream, _oh darling you're_ —"

That turns what might've been truth into something grotesquely wrong. "Don't call me that!" Ike sneers, terror raw. Only one person— _creature_ —ever called him that.

Marth raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Did she call you darling? Your wife?"

"N—no. _Never_."

"Then who?"

"Samus." The name causes the illness to return full force. He had almost forgotten its hold over his physical body and feels the familiar taste of half digested food crawl up his throat; nourishment he sorely needs to keep down. "She was a Smasher, you know, the bounty hunter... Occupied one of the lower floors, made like zero friends except for Shulk. She wanted a..." _Darling. Whore._ "...wife. Told me I wasn't alone anymore. That I didn't need to be afraid anymore." Ike falls back, looking down into his lap. "She told me he wanted to fill me up. I secretly want that. Wanted. Whatever, I don't remember. Now I just want to re _store_ my mind." He's on dangerous territory. It seems like the only road to go is deeper inside. That, or back, in mind. Back to—

The table.

To be made into... something else. ( _"Your skin is precious, damned porcelain, it is so lovely."_ ) Everything contorts. He's falling back now, far back, and starts gurgling, volume intensifying up to screaming nearly drowned out by the sound by the of the saw bench.

Peach might've hugged him.

Marth slaps him so hard his ears start ringing. He's not angry. He's sucking on the inside of his cheek, looking like when he sat in the kitchen, smoking and staring into nothing. "A guy cut my fingers off with some bone shears. A nickname giving amateur surgeon, just like yours. _Buddy_." Similarities turn into differences in the way that they handle their problems. It's not as if the two of them would instantly bond over their experiences, not with such different approaches. Ike vomits and retorts to animalistic techniques, Marth lockes it up inside and makes his emotions manifest as the stadium. Twirling his fingers (or lack of), Marth smiles almost fondly, "You don't see me crying about that."

Shame blossoms into rage, and some of Ike's sarcasm return, "Did she try cut your cock off, too? Not that Samus necessarily did... but she alluded to it in the stages of losing her mind. When that Hand thought we had enough fun."

Marth frowns. Then he brightens, "So _that's_ why you won't let me touch you. You're afraid I'll cut your dick off." This seems to amuse him, then he realizes the insult, "Hey, I wouldn't do that."

"You chased me down the hall like a fucking Primid."

"You lured me into Hell."

This will get them nowhere. The shrink mask slips back on, calm and collected. "What do you think of yourself?"

The question hits Ike in the gut. "I'm... nothing. Not right now."

"You remember your names, your job, your family—everything that builds the identity of Ike Griel. That is something. Someone. Sickness isn't gonna change that."

"Knowing about them changes nothing. I'm not who I was before. You were right, something else was stuffed inside. I did not accomplish anything after I contacted you."

"We're _going to_ accomplish something. Doesn't mean I like what you did, but hell, the deed's done. It was morally correct and all that. We need to get it out there."

"I don't think it would be good to reveal it to the outer world. There's so much sickness in that place... Wouldn't be good, exposing it."

Marth looks unimpressed. "Do you think you're able to forget your experiences?"

"I can try. I'm getting better."

"I beg to differ, _darling_."

Ike shuts his eyes tightly, refusing to open them when he knows Samus will stare back at him. "I told you not to call me that."

Marth sucks on his shattered finger, "I once read an article about a psychology experiment whose methods were extreme and controversial, but effective. There was this patient, with, y'know, a phobia for human contact. She had to talk to shrinks through video cameras. So this one guy has this bright idea of chaining the patient to a lamppost in a busy street, and they go through with it. Sure, the patient wets herself and nearly breaks down, but it's _effective_. She gets _better_. I think we should face the problem head on, too. Get out the sickness you keep talking about. She had a name you know. Want to know it? Her name was Lucina. Our stadium did that to her!"

Ike does not pour the darkness out into the night. It grows and festers inside him, like a lump of spew or a bowel movement stuck in his system. He frequently gags, and so, is defiled with the taste of himself rotting. "What are you suggesting?" he asks.

Hot smoke curls around Marth's head, flowing from his mouth and nose, polluting the air. Marth's scent boxes him in like a perfume too heavy for summer. "I want to fuck you."

"That was a one time thing. I was... frustrated and you served as a sex toy."

"Good. You're refusing me. That shows character." He removes his jacket, an ashen thing. The tee underneath is filthier, if that's possible. "What's the plan, Griel? Move back into society? Greet the kids, kiss the wife, get a new job? All you're concentrating on is _getting better_ and you're not doing that."

"Fine then," Ike hisses. "Fuck me and see if it makes a difference."

"Ooh, bad move, darling," Marth responds. He pulls Ike—pulls and pulls into eternity—onto his lap.

Ike's imagination does the rest. He's straddling Samus, now, bedroom becoming a black room, lit with a hundred hundreds of candles that stretches shadows and deepens spaces. Ah, yes, the consummation of marriage. The tattered wedding dress is on and stained. Samus's patchwork dress is half removed, undershirt open and loose.

Ike feels hot and dark **want** well up and ripple in his chest again. He wants dark animal heart, fresh heart blood, squeezing it with his teeth. This is unholy, dirtying his past relations. _There was a time before the Stadium_ , he tells himself, but the thought is fleeting. The clothes come off, layer by layer, and Ike continues to be in his dream state. There's blood everywhere. Bodies hanging from the ceiling.

(He imagines himself with blood caked hair and vacant eyes, zigzag thread—steel wire?—sewn flesh onto flesh, little swells for breasts, and being completely ruined down under. Hips held in a deceivingly gentle fashion, kissed gently while simultaneously being gutted with a knife, gore smeared all over his stomach. Handcuffs dig into his wrists. Pain, again. He's just a body. Just another sack of meat. He knows what will happen here. Despair, destiny, death. That's what Ike sees, in Samus's mad blue eyes. The end of him.)

Naked and dirty, he feels hands pulling his shirt upwards. The undressing is completed this time, not just pushed aside for fast access. Ike's imagining takes a will of its own.

(" _So familiar. Like we're already wedded. Or are you just another whore?_ ")

_Yes._ Ike hardens, thinking, _Cut it into my skin, brand it into me, I'm just a slut, I'm nothing, I'm—_

"Mine," Samus—no, Marth—says possessively, and gives a crooked grin, one eye twitching. The stadium's soul continues to ooze from him. The distraction is welcomed. But it also makes Ike's eyes wander to Marth's bare chest, which is peppered with...

Holes.

Bullet holes. Dozens of them. They are filled with smoke, barely transparent. The stadium's soul functions as a second skin. Marth isn't wholly alive, then. Just a ghost. Ike stares, stunned.

"Holes in God," Marth comments, finding it hilarious. He grabs Ike's hand and puts it on one of the wounds. Ike chokes in repulsion—especially when he discovers that the substance here is the same that slithered across his lips in the car, previously used as a gag. Somehow the idea transmits to Marth, and the tendrils reappear to coil and curl around his limbs. He smiles. He likes how they look against Ike's skin, and the sound Ike makes when he sends them downwards, a mix between a wail and a moan.

"Sex and violence," Marth lazily explains.

"H—hunger," Ike corrects. He's busy with spreading his legs, body lifted slightly over Marth.

"Mine," Marth repeats. Ike feels Marth begin the preparation, and Marth couldn't care less that it isn't his hand doing the work. He's beginning to develop a taste for this. The tendrils thicken in some places, and Marth's wrists are humid with them. Ike is slick because of them. Some of those things are _inside_ him, probing and coiling. "Mine, mine, mine." Marth pushes him against the bed and Ike pushes back, untasteful words emerging from a tasteful mouth, and _God_ , this scene will haunt him in his dreams. They're just bodies. But Marth likes his, and he likes Marth'. Though it disgusts them both, they are enamoured with each other— _in love_ being too crude a phrase.

The nasty business continues. They don't bother with condoms this time, too infested / invested in this to care. Marth replaces the tendrils with his _lovely_ member, slower this time. Ike doesn't really like the riding position, but he guesses this is a part of facing his problems, literally.

"Hurry," Ike urges.

"No way," Marth answers. He obviously prides himself on his abilities in bed, and he's going to make this pleasurable. _Fucker_.

Ike has an idea and grinds out, "Buddy."

Marth freezes. Then he starts laughing, tone hysterical. He shoves Ike down a bit harshly, a little punishment, smile amused but forced. "Trying to use my methods against me? Clever." Because then he starts going even slower, the exact opposite of what Ike wants.

"Bastard."

"Mhmm." The room is hazy with smoke. "Continue like that, yeah..." He isn't very vocal, but he does not seem to mind that Ike is. Half of Marth is painted oily black. It reaches up to his jaw, like small hands. His real hand touches the inside of Ike's legs, making him whimper. The other strokes his back. "C'mon... work with me. Tell me what to do."

Exert control.

This is what it has been building up to, in a way.

"Jerk me off."

Marth does, and expertly matches the pacing. Ike leans into Marth's neck, one arm swung around him to support himself. Marth copies the action. Perhaps it is a misplaced thought of goodwill, believing Ike wants a hug. Marth's fingers circle the head of his cock, making sure to hit the correct angle as he helps Ike thrust down on him. Skin talking to skin. Loud. Suddenly the darkness materializes and grips him, pulling him back so that he needs to look at the penetrator.

He expects another face, but it is Marth staring back at him. It is the face of a monster, skin ashen and eyes wild, but he is also physical evidence that Ike isn't alone in experiencing what he has / is. Marth's every interaction with him is permeated with Godlike arrogance, but this is the most human he's been in a long time. Regardless, negative emotion radiates off him. Resentment. Envy. Wraith. A desire to fuck Ike with a knife, or something equally disturbing. But it's subdued, and quiet like Marth's own loneliness. Ike realizes Marth is dependant on him as much as he is on Marth.

"Mine," Ike says, and he's not just talking about Marth. He's talking about his own body, his identity, his experiences... all of it. He is who he is. "I am sick with you." Not _of_ you, but _with_ you. Like Marth is a virus, feeding on blood. Mushrooms on a tree trunk. Knocking on his skin.

The comment sends Marth off the hook, and he releases inside Ike, silently. _My angel host, my darling knight,_ Ike thinks, drunk and drowned in feeling, ready to burst. _Let me infect you since you infect me. It is contagious, this sickness of mine. Let us adapt and mutate, together._

Marth curses. His chest is heaving, and he's drenched in sweat. He pulls out, trembling (so, so human), but does not let his physique stop him. He has handled bullets and body parts being chopped off. This is nothing in comparison. He smirks like he knows a secret, and helps position Ike so that Marth can slip between his legs. Ike cannot stop his shout when Marth swallows all of him.

_Oh_ —

(Is it his imagination again, or is the stadium contaminating him? The shadow stretches onto his knees, his stomach, his chest... Ike throws his head back and doesn't care. Thanks to preceding assistance, it doesn't take long for him to come, clutching Marth's hair, gasping. Something in him breaks, but Ike doesn't notice.)

— _God._

"No God," Marth reminds him with a mouth full of cum.

(Did Ike say that out loud? He's already red because of the physical strain and embarrassment.)

Marth swallows, wiping the remains on his wrist, grinning. Yes. The teeth are very sharp. He stands up. Ike is just lying there, spent. Is this regression? Is this just another round of sex? But the next second shows that something has changed. Ike does not avoid him with his eyes—eyes further away from childhood than Marth have ever seen. Not all casualties come home in body bags. The two of them are walking corpses but at least they know they're walking.

Ike looks straight at him and says, weakly, "Stay."

.

.

It's uncertain how long they keep it up. They fuck, sleep, eat disgusting food, fuck some more, and this too seems never ending. Though it is a good thing. Marth has told Ike what is next on the list—self actualization: reaching one's full potential. To achieve this need, one needs to master those before. Marth is more than happy to build up Ike's esteem through sex. Ike does not wish to confront the horrors of the real world just yet.

That's not their current focus.

But all barriers break, eventually. Especially when they have become so familiar that Ike dares to ask, lying beside Marth on the bed, "Why is everything so dirty around here?"

Marth quiets. "Dirty?" he asks, frowning.

"The sheets, the walls, the floor... everything's covered in a surprising amount of dirt. The food's rotten, too. The water system doesn't work. Did you just find this place abandoned?"

"Ike."

"I mean, it doesn't bother me that much, but I haven't felt clean in ages."

"Ike. This house isn't dirty."

Ike blinks. "What are you talking about?"

"The house is _fine_. It's clean. You're clean, too."

Does the stadium's soul make Marth blind or something? Ike licks his teeth, nervous.

"You sure have a lot of problems. Illness, pain, filth..." Marth muzzles against Ike's hair. "You see things that aren't there. Why, next you'll be calling me a monster."

What.

There is no question mark behind that word—because he is truly and utterly mind fucked. He knows the mind plays curious tricks, especially in the aftermath of distress. How much has been an illusion? The smears on the walls still look just as vivid. What if the stadium is a hoax, and Marth is playing him...? No. He will not finish that trail of thought. Potential swells in his chest. Ike knows what he must do. Yes.

Marth leans down near his ear, smirking. "Don't worry, Ike, my dear. I'll fuck the sickness out of you."

_Or will he keep it in?_ Waylon realizes he does not care either way. He's fixed, now, thanks to Marth. Or just twisted into something worse.

Self actualization warps into **vengeance**. Panic becomes a quiet rage, and he envisions the stadium, although already burned down once... burning.

And this time the feeling felt good.


End file.
